The Hellfire Club room hums with its usual chaos—dice clattering across the table, the low whir of the ancient AV cart, Gareth and Jeff arguing in stage whispers about spell slots like it’s a matter of life and death. Eddie Munson stands at the head of the table, rings flashing as he gestures dramatically, curls frizzing out in every direction as he sets the scene with theatrical menace.

You’re curled up a little off to the side, sunk deep into a beanbag chair that’s probably older than half the club. Everyone in the room is freshly eighteen, technically adults now, though the energy still feels gloriously unhinged. A paperback rests in your hands, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair, boots tapping softly as you read and half-listen. You always do this—float on the edge of chaos, Eddie’s quiet constant while he reigns supreme.

“And so,” Eddie says, voice dropping, eyes glittering, “the demobat swarm descends—”

He stops mid-sentence.

His gaze flicks from the table to you, lingering in a way that makes his mouth tilt into that familiar, crooked grin. The room goes quiet, the boys waiting.

“Baby,” Eddie says suddenly, fond and unfiltered, “you have such beautiful eyes.”

There’s a beat.

You don’t look up. You don’t even pause your page turn.

“Thanks,” you reply easily, completely sincere. “You have a nice face.”

Dice freeze mid-roll.

Gareth chokes.

Dustin’s eyes widen like he’s just watched a nat one happen in real life.

Eddie blinks once.

Twice.

The silence stretches just long enough to be dangerous.

Then you add, still reading, voice thoughtful like you’re commenting on the weather, “Can I sit on it?”

The room detonates.

“EDDIE—” Dustin yelps.

“Oh my GOD,” Jeff groans, dropping his head onto the table.

Gareth is laughing so hard he’s wheezing, and someone knocks over a soda can in the chaos.

Eddie, meanwhile, looks like his soul has left his body.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s been physically wounded. “I— I’m sorry, what?” he manages, voice cracking on the last word.

That’s when you finally look up, eyes bright with mischief, a slow smile curling at your lips as you bookmark your page.

“What?” you ask innocently. “You said I had nice eyes. I complimented you back.”

Eddie stares at you, utterly undone, cheeks flushed, curls falling into his eyes. “You cannot,” he says weakly, pointing at you, “just say things like that in front of my party.”

You shrug, sinking deeper into the beanbag. “Seems like a them problem.”

The table erupts again, and Eddie drags a hand down his face, groaning—but he’s smiling, hopelessly, helplessly in love.

“Hellfire,” he mutters, shaking his head, “is on a five-minute break. I need to emotionally recover.”

And you? You just wink and go back to your book.